Hot chick turf wars

When I was a teenager, I was a pretty primo piece of ass. I'm really not bragging, just ask anyone who knew me back than. I was smoking hot. These days I'm still cute, but it's a mere shadow of my former prettiness. I'm slowly making my way towards 30, and have been forced to act like an adult since I was 17, so time and baby weight have naturally taken its toll on me. No matter. I still have pretty eyes and great hooters, and therefore rarely have to buy my own drinks at th bar. But my youth and hotness and obvious conceit caused many problems; first and foremost, all other hot girls were considered competition.

The mark of a hot, snotty girl is how many boys trail after her. It's how she gauges her worth and popularity. Even if I had no interest in a boy, I would flirt endlessly until I had convinced him how great I was, and once he started to persue me, I would turn and flee, wagging my ass temptingly to make sure he would give chase. And usually he would, even if during our courtship I would do insensetive things like avoiding his phone calls, or do outright mean crap, like flirting with his much hotter best friend. I honestly just expected boys to put up with it, because I was worth a little suffering. I tended to hang out mostly in large groups of boys, and would never let them forget my femaleness even for a second. I was worshipped. I was adored. They thought I was sweet and funny and that rainbows shot out of my ass and I farted Lucky Charms... at least they pretended to so I would make out with them. But every so often, another girl would blip onto their radar... and than it was war.

There are many classifications of hot chicks. There's the classic beauty, who makes heads turn wherever she goes. There's the smart hottie, the one that makes you fantasize about naughty librarians. There's the sexy bad girl, who smokes by age 14 and gives handjobs under the bleachers. There's the cute jock chick that could probably beat you at basketall and steal your heart at the same time. Let's not forget the pretty drama queen... you can tune out her crazy and focus on her bouncy boobies. And of course, who would forget Gothika, with her short skirts and heavy eyeliner. You'd listen to her lame, angsty poetry in the hopes she will someday let you tap that ass.

I was, of course, one of the bad girls. I don't know if this is a universal hot chick thing, but all other bad girl hotties I came across instantly disliked me, and each other. It's like we could smell the bitchiness, and it offended us. We would make an instant decision, depending on how much of a threat the other girl posed. We would either become mortal enemies and bash each other to whomever would listen, or we would pretend to become besties so we could keep tabs on each other. Either way, we would give each other a wide bearth while we were with our fans. Even among the bad girls, cat fights were rare since they exposed our claws to the possessors of Y chromosomes, and that scared them away. A good chick fight can be hot, but once you realize she is going for the jugglar, it loses its appeal pretty quickly.

But I grew up. I got played by a few guys, and that certainly put me in my place. I became a person, just like the people I had been so heartless to. It took some practice, but eventually I learned some humility, and how to compromise. And now I get to sit back and watch the new generation of hot girls duke it out, and know that while pretty is fleeting, bitchy is forever. Thank God I upgraded!

Ode to Charlie Day

Ever since the first time I accidentally came across your show while aimlessly channel-surfing at 1 am on a boring Saturday night, I have been a fan. That particular evening I happened to be lounging around my living room in red feetie pajamas with the butt flap undone (for comfort sake, not for any weird sexual reasons), with nothing but a bottle of Boone’s Farm and some nachos to keep me company. My dead horse boyfriend was home, but had drank himself into an unconscious stupor hours ago, so the plans we had that entailed The Olive Garden and off-color jokes made at the expense of our waiter were therefore cancelled. He even bitched out on a round of ferocious dry humping before said date in favor of killing most of a case of Keystone, not an unusual occurrence in our courtship, by the way, in favor of destroying his already depleted brain cells. So I was holding down the fort alone.

Having recently upgraded to basic extended cable, I hadn’t had access to Channel 79, FX, since I had lived with my parents. I watched the last few minutes of some lame program, and since I was too lazy to reach for the remote again, I settled back and let the powers that be provide my random entertainment. I was not disappointed. The screen went yellow, and the melodious music that swelled warned me that the following show had a mature rating because of language, violence, and sexual content. That’s exactly my type of show! Over the next 30 minutes or so, I remained glued to the television. I didn’t even break for the bathroom on commercials, which led to some dampness on my part and realizing that adult diapers may be a sound investment for a woman of my lazy nature.

No matter. What I was experiencing was entertaining, enthralling, unsettling, and clever. My first viewing of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” just so happened to be the Day Man episode, arguably one of the best and most quoted. Seriously, go up to any “Sunny” fan and utter the words “Day Man”, and if you’re rewarded with a screechy, sing-song “Aaaahhh!” in reply, you have been inducted into the brotherhood of fandom. At the end of the episode I had laughed myself to tears, and acquired a new love. Love for Day Man, and his Creator, Charlie Kelly, aka Charlie Day.

Charlie is everything a strange, slightly crazy chick would want in a mate. He’s funny, has musical talent, isn’t afraid to look stupid for the sake of expressing his creative side, and is presumably loaded since he has his own television show. His character’s disturbing, stalker-ish obsession with The Waitress is oddly endearing. If a guy liked me enough to follow me to and from work, and wasn’t wielding an assault weapon of some sort, how could I not be charmed? Even his character’s supposed bad hygiene and illiteracy are cute. Solution? Let’s take a bath together! I could read aloud from Lolita, or some other wildly inappropriate book while he sponges my back and quietly giggles every time he catches a glimpse of my butt crack through the foamy, scented bubbles. It could be a match made in weirdo Heaven. We could have strange, hilarious little babies that are much too short and use rampant foul language. It would be my version of a fairy tale ending.

Oh, Charlie. I am aware that in real life, you are married (to The Waitress, no less!), and the fact that you live thousands of miles away and have never even heard of me is detrimental our relationship. Just know that I long for you from afar. Every man I meet from now on will be compared to you. The weirder, the better. And if I ever do come across a guy who shares a futon with another grown man, or gets followed by cats as he goes about his daily business, or pretends to be a lawyer while knowing absolutely nothing about the legal profession, I will think of you and sigh. Any real life Charlie’s out there? What are you waiting for? I’m giving away the crazy for free, and it comes with a great set of knockers  ; )

Freakin Weekend

Originally posted April 2008


Friday night rolls around and I’m excitedly primping in my sister's room, desperate to get out of the house. Sitting around doing nada all day is so not my style. And this weekend I am a woman with options.. too many options, it turns out. I plan on grabbing a few beers with the boys, but then Mara calls and as usual, I just can’t seem to say no to her. She’s at Choppers with Amanda, Frankie and Burnout, so after picking up Randy boy and Graf I retrace my steps and head downtown. I park at Snyders and Graf runs inside, leaving me and Randall in the car to have a much needed heart to heart, something we haven’t done since we were roommates. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother, especially now that JT is toast.


Drama ensues once we hit the bar; apparently Dan and Amanda are fighting, and him showing up didnt make her happy. So we girls ignore them completely as we take shots, play darts, and shake our asses to Pour Some Sugar on Me, and any other decent song that plays. Amanda is my musical soul-twin, something I never had the chance to learn before with her boyfriend meddling in our affairs. Burnout plys me with whisky, throws an arm over my shoulder and adresses my breasts for the rest of the night, which are admittedly fabulous but hello, my face isn’t that bad either. Brooks shows up and stares, but I totally ignore him until my drink is empty.. after he refills it he can be my friend.


Half way through the night Mara pulls a power move and relocates the entire group to The Ollie, a place I haven’t been since the days of Jackie. God how I miss people watching with her. We walk in and the first person I run into is Brad. We hug, talk about the family and he buys me a beer.  I turn to get us shots, and when I come back he’s disappeared. While heading to the pool tables I come across a guy with a cool shirt, so I offer him the shot, smile, and leave. His name turns out to be Nate, and he spends the rest of the evening following me around like I have candy stuck to my ass, questioning any man that gets within arms length of me whether that guy is my boyfriend.


A few hours and several drinks later Frankie invites us girls back to his place for some beer pong... barring that the boys don’t follow. Amanda is down, so despite my buzzed state, I get drafted to bring the boys home. They take it like men, though.. Dan whines and Randy knocks over trash cans. When we get to Frankie’s, three ugly girls are already there. Mara, Amanda and I intimidate them into leaving... its amazing what a whisper and a raised eyebrow can accomplish. Beer pong was predictibly lame, so we head for Perkins than home, with sweet little Nate texting me obsessively the entire time. We get back to the house and Dan and Randall are on acid. Amanda yells but they just laugh at her.


I decide to crash there since there should be no more driving for this girl. Randall stares at me like I’m doing magic tricks, fondles my legs briefly, but leaves me alone when I pointedly begin to talk about my ex-boyfriend and his best friend, Squints. Guilt and wrongness is a potent combination, no matter how wasted a person is.


The next day I wake up to Nate texting me. Aw, how sweet... he remembered me once he got sober. I can hear Randy  banging around in his room, getting ready for work, and Graf swearing as he uses the bathroom. I spend the next few hours alternating between sleeping and texting, realizing that I now have a new addition to my relatively small marathon-texting circle. I finally head home around noon, pretty myself up for that night’s adventure, and leave without seeing any of my family.


Saturday was more mellow... Dinner and a movie with Kelly and Randi girl. A real girls night out was just what I needed. We went and saw 21.. fricking amazing. I am now in love with Jim Sturgess. And the movie wasn’t bad either. Then we went for food and drinks at Tav on the Ave and discussed all our drama, relationships (or lack thereof) and life. Getting the serious stuff out of the way first, we drank our humongus drinks and became loud and obnoxious. I never laugh with anyone else the way I laugh with those two girls. Especially when we describe things, like what Blue Cheese smells and tastes like. I almost peed my pants. After everyone was feeling better and we made our waitress work for her tip, Kelly cut out to go see Sky and Randi and I head back to her place to decide where to go from there.


We barely got out of the parking lot when Mara called again. Her and Dave, plus two other guys were down at the Ollie again, and she needed me. Score! I’m so pumped about seeing awesome Dave again that I start to dance in my car to My Humps. A car full of dudes pull up next to me and laugh. I stare right back and mouth the words, and pretend to touch my tits. They start to roll down their window but the light turns green so I blow them kisses and dart off like a bat out of hell. I feel potent to the point of being dangerous.


At Randi’s we change our clothes and do our hair and try on shoes.. all the pressing matters women must attend to before we can go out in public. After an hour we’re finally acceptable and we head downtown. Dave and Mara are thrilled to see me, and so is one of her companions... Mara’s new flavor of the week, Clint, and another Dave, whom I promptly dub Bad Dave... and with good cause. He spends the evening trying to hug and hit on me, and at one point I turn around and he’s actually smelling my hair. Randi is feeling a strange mixture of discomfort and boredom, so after texting a pic of my tits of Kelly, she leaves for The Underground giggling.


Bad Dave keeps coming onto me like he’s starved, so I tell Good Dave and Mara to please tell him to back off but apparently he didn’t get the memo, so I cut out, taking Good Dave back with me since his apartment on campus is on my way. On the drive home I realize I kept missing calls from Jesse and wonder whether he’s mad at me. I got none of my much-needed Bethy time that day. I think about the convo Steven and I had last week and start to bite my nails until I turn up the music so loud I drown out my own thoughts. I get home and have 8 missed texts from a strange number.. turns out Bad Dave got my number from Mara, who thinks we would be "a cute couple", and he procedes to embarass himself for the next hour until I just stopped being nice and told him blatantly that I don’t want to have sex with him, so please fuck off. Then I rolled over and slept like a baby.


Despite all the unwanted male attention, this was prolly one of the best weekends I’ve had since I don’t remember when. Right now my mind is spinning as I think about 100 different things and people, but for once that is not a bad thing  = )